Pirates say AAARGH!

His grandmother and I kind of went nuts on the decorating.

I don't want to know what maw maw had to do to earn these.

We only had a week to prepare, and I shudder to think what Linda could have cooked up if I’d given her another 7 days to scheme. Check out the ship’s cannons.

Pool noodles -- for sea dogs and land lubbers alike.

As it was, we staged a pirate battle complete with nerf cannon balls and confetti guns, walked the plank over dangerous rubber crocodiles,

fished for prizes (a clothes pin on the end of a fishing pole delivered a cache of chocolate coins in a genuine pirate drawstring bag), made pirate crafts (glitter glue is a @#$% to get out of fabric unless you act fast)

and finished up with a treasure hunt for a chest full of individual pirate goody bags.

Then there were ice cream boats, donut towers and ocean blue punch for snack.

Check out the mainsail on that Ice Cream Boat!

Or as Jason likes to call it, the “NOT IN THE CAR!” cocktail.

A hearty mix of Raspberry filled and plain doughnuts

Chocolate Iced and Cream-filled. *sigh*

Exhausting? Yes.

Messy? We cleaned the playroom with a shovel (literally) and a shopvac.

Worth it? Absolutely. After the treasure hunt, I heard Jack shout to the crowd of pirates gathered around him, “This is the best day ever!”

And you know what? It was.

Follow @cmsvoteup

“What’s up babe?”

“Can I get a tattoo on my belly?”

“Of course,” I say as I place another dish in the wash. “What kind to you want?

“Two pirate swords that go like this.” He draws an ‘X’ in the air with his finger, and nods in satisfaction.

“Sounds good to me, babe. And you want a tattoo like that? Not just a sticker or something?” I feel obliged to offer an alternative.

“No, I want it to be there every day even when I take a bath.”

“Good thinking. How about we do that for your birthday?” That’s nine months away. What are the odds I’ll be held accountable for this particular promise.

“Okee doke,” he tosses over his shoulder as he pads out of the kitchen.

I love all my children, but conversations with Sam tend to add a certain lightness to the day.

Follow @cmsvoteup

“Uh huh,” Sam says. “This is a good day to be home and not struck dead by lightning.” He nods in agreement with himself, sporting the funny little smile he always gives after stating one of his bona fide, indisputable facts.

We stare at him in silence for a beat, and then burst out laughing. And maybe, just maybe, we’re a little bit more thankful to be here together, warm and dry, as the storm howls itself to exhaustion outside.

Follow @cmsvoteup

And I smile. Because now I’m happy, too.

Follow @cmsvoteup

Tom, who is not a breakfast fan, has managed half a bagel — toasted but not crispy —  while Will has powered through two huge bowls of cereal and would probably accept more if I offered, which I will not.

They sit on the floor of the living room in front of plastic t.v. trays painted with each boy’s name. They’re color coded, as things have been their entire life. I wonder if Will’s favorite color is actually blue, or if Sam truly loves red, or Tom green. Do they identify those at their favorite colors simply because every item belonging to them individually has been color-coded since birth?

These are the things you wonder as a mom of many. How much is their personality? How much is my doing?

And if my influence counts for so much…dear God in heaven, please help me get it right.

Follow @cmsvoteup

Peregrine had never noticed the size of Early’s teeth before. Which is strange considering that Peregrine “Perry” Turch had worked as a runner/gopher/jack-of-all-trades for Early’s Birds for the better part of a year now. Of course, he’d never been called before the big man himself, having been recruited by one of Early’s generals, Red Stanley, who controlled everything from Scuttle Street to the harbor docks where Perry had been summoned tonight. But now, watching the big man delicately nip an apple slice from the blade of his pocket knife, Perry found himself unable to see much else, as if the room itself had shrunk in comparison to a set of teeth.

It wasn’t just the fact that his teeth were big, Perry decided, for Early was a big man himself, and one might only expect that his choppers would be proportional. No, there was something more than mere size at work here. Perhaps it was their uncommon sheen, an almost pearlescent glow seen only rarely in even the wealthiest of Dunbarton’s citizens, and quite possibly never amid the inhabitants of Dunbarton’s lower west quadrant — referred to affectionately as ‘The Pit.’ The fact that one of their own, even one as exalted at Big Jim Early, was sporting not only a full set of teeth, but a highly polished one at that, was surely the secret of their unholy allure.
Perry nodded to himself, satisfied with his deductions, and felt his back start to relax into the soft leather of the club chair Early had motioned him toward some minutes ago, before the big man began the tedious process of peeling the apple he was now slowly devouring.
It had been quite a ritual. The polishing of the apple against his lavendar waistcoat. The testing of the pocket knife for sharpness, done by slicing through a sheet of paper in one broad sweep leaving only a clean sort of shushing sound in its wake. Then the careful task taking off the peel in one continuous piece.
Perry found himself forgetting to breathe as the skin spiraled almost to the floor, so thin he could see the glow of the oil lamp on Early’s desk shining through it and no wider than his own pinkie nail. It wasn’t until Early took the first, naked slice into his mouth, that Perry remembered to inhale. And only then in reaction to those incredible teeth.
Early’s lips closed over the final slice. As he munched, grinding the apple to a juicy pulp and swallowing it with an audible gulp, his black eyes never once left Perry’s faded blue stare.
To his credit, Perry held his gaze right up to the point when Early licked his lips, seeking that last bit of fresh apple pulp and pulling it into his gaping maw. And then Perry forgot to hold eye contact, forgot once again to breathe, forgot everything but the fact that Big Jim Early didn’t simply have big teeth. He didn’t have pearly white teeth. What Big Jim Early had were great-big, pearly-white, razor-sharp fangs.

And the worst part — the part that made Perry wish he’d never heard of Red Stanley, or The Pit or the entire city of Dunbarton — Big Jim Early was smiling.

Follow @cmsvoteup

In Friday’s post, I introduced you to Hannah Brencher. At 23, she’s figured out something that took me a decade in a career as a TV news anchor and reporter to realize. Today, I share the rest of my conversation with her.
In NYC, Hannah Brencher is known as the “love letter writer.” She understands that for her website & blog The World Needs More Love Letters to succeed, it has to look like and operate like a business. But dollar signs and the bottom line don’t drive this work. It’s fueled by the “compassion of others and my own faith that others will latch onto the cause at hand,” she says.
Hannah and her team write and mail notes to strangers all over the world. Encouraging them. Reminding them that their life is worth fighting for. Reminding them that they are loved. “I never thought to call it a movement but that is what everyone around me has called it. And to that I say, well if it is going to bring more love, more compassion, and more intentionality into the world, then let it move. Let it rock. Let it roll and plow the way that it’s meant to, and I will guide and steer it from the background.”
Brencher has a day job, working at a leading non-profit for children. “One day, it would be nice to move into a more full time role with the love letters or writing but, just as this whole thing has unfolded, I trust that this opportunity will also unfold in time.”
At 23, she already gets it. She understands she’s a person who can’t be fit into a box. “I cannot define what I want to do on a daily basis, much less my whole life.” But she knows this:
“I am successful. Without a doubt, I am successful. I would not have said that a few months ago, when I was defining success in terms of ladders and climbing them. Today, success, to me, is doing something each day that I know I will be proud of in one year from now. Success is finding a way to be a blessing to other people. If I get to the end of a day and I cannot look over the hours and say, I was good to that person or I found a way to value that person, then I better just head to sleep and try harder in the morning. I’ve found that when I wake up with that being my sole purpose, to be a blessing to other people, life is so much easier.“
The world needs more love letters. Yes. Yes it does. But it also needs more people like Hannah Brencher, don’t you think?

Follow @cmsvoteup

It wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’m making it sound.

Tom walks in as I’m frowning at the processor, wondering why one large chunk is just floating on top of the rest and refusing to get chopped to ribbons.

“What kind of smoothie are you making Mommy?”

“Ummm…actually, I guess it’s ham,” I say wriggling my eyebrows at Tommy.

“Mooommm!” he giggles. “That’s not right!”

And it really isn’t. Something about the shredded ham is not working for me, and I’m starting to wonder about this whole undertaking. But I soldier on stirring in the mayonnaise (bleh!), sweet relish (ick!) and mustard. I’m okay with mustard. It’s never done anything to offend me. But the rest of it coagulates into a slimy, pink, ham-scented ball.

But I refuse to be defeated. Surely, once paired with a tasty, crisp saltine this whole mess will suddenly be transformed into a tasty — and most importantly, thrifty — treat.

I solicit volunteers, but apparently the boys have played guinea pig once too many times. There are no takers. I decide to take one for the team and slather a Triscuit with a hefty sample. I am NOT a fan. I try a different cracker with the same result. There’s just no getting around it, this stuff is gross.

But that doesn’t mean we’re not having it for dinner.

As Ice T says, Thrifty ain’t easy…but it’s necessary. Or something to that effect.

Follow @cmsvoteup

Sam wanders in and tells me he can turn his head far enough to see a little bit backward. I murmur my approval. He smiles and shrugs, then wanders over to the dog. I hope he’ll be distracted long enough for me to write another sentence or two, but no. Already he’s back. Asking me why dogs smell people. Asking if I like his new watch from Chick-fil-a. And informing me that 1-0-0 is 100.

He is thirsty, and talks about which cup would be most desirable for his drink. My new coffee cup with the shoes on it tempts him, but before he can make a decision, he’s distracted by our Christmas Elf who arrived last night, much to everyone’s pleasure.

Except mine.

But I gave in.

As usual.

“Mom?” Sam asks. “You know what I did one time?”

“What?”

“Bal-a-lay — ‘cause I’m learning to be like a girl.” He laughs at his own absurdity, then noticing the strawberry bump on my neck, demands to know if I have any more strawberries. He immediately begins a search of all my exposed skin — not much territory considering I’m wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and calf-length house-shoes. I let him poke and prod me in hopes of making it to my 45 minute writing deadline. But things aren’t looking good.

Sam loses interest in my blemishes and moves on to the Christmas tree, then back to the elf.

“Mommy, I love elves. I hope we can get another one.”

“I don’t think so. One’s plenty.”

Sam doesn’t argue, already bored with the conversation. He finds a dum-dum lollipop, and wonders if the elf would like it, or if perhaps he’d prefer a cracker.

“Mommy can I eat a cracker? Just one?”

Before I can answer, he steps on something with his bare foot. “Ouch!” He bends to examine the offending object. “What is this thing, Mommy?”

He shows me a fragment of plastic, broken from some unknown toy. I grunt and shake my head in disapproval.

“It hurted me,” Sam says, his eyebrows knit. “I’m going to go throw it away.”

And he does, then pads back toward the stairs leading down to the playroom. I feel a surge of hope. I’m 15 minutes in to my 45 minute session. If I can get the last half-hour alone, perhaps I can make that thousand word goal I’d made for myself.

At the last moment, he veers away from the stairs toward me again.

“Mommy? I still really want a cracker.”

“Okay,” I say. “Go get one out of the cabinet.”

“I can’t reach them, Mommy. They’re in the middle. When I’m six years old, I can. But right now I’m five, so I need you to do it. The square crackers mommy. They’re in the middle.”

And so I sigh, and close my computer and go get crackers. 17 minutes. 523 words. As I move to the kitchen, I hear a fight break out in the playroom. Someone screams my name, but before I can respond, the screamer erupts in laughter, all previous wrongs forgotten.

My eyes prickle, but my feet keep moving toward the kitchen and the square crackers. The ones in the middle.

Follow @cmsvoteup

“Are you sorry you’re missing out?” I asked him.

“On 40 people crammed into two overheated 10×12′ rooms? Yup. Heartbroken.”

Jason’s sarcasm aside, we had a great time with the family. But the boys’ take on my childhood home is always the best. Jack views trips to my old room like mini archeological digs and always comes back with some sort of souvenir of his journey. This explains the numerous 4-H trophies from the late 80s that adorn his dresser.

The triplets are kind of uncertain about the whole thing, still asking clarifying questions about my upbringing.

“So Mamaw Steadman is your mommy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Bubba is your dad?”

“No, he’s my brother. He just lives with mawmaw so they can take care of each other.”

“Oh, cause you’re dad’s in heaven, right?”

“Right.”

As they’ve gotten more comfortable in their surroundings, they’ve started digging deeper and noticing more. For instance, Sam spotted for the first time the GIGANTIC portrait of me at age 15 wearing an unfortunate black turtleneck that I thought made me look sophisticated and worldly — no small feat considering I was having my portrait made inside the J.C. Penney at the Jasper mall. But I digress.

Sam looked up at almost-life-sized-me and asked my sister why there was a picture of “that ninja girl” on the wall.

In a conspiratorial whisper, my sister Amy said, “Well you know, that girl is actually your mommy a long time ago.”

Sam turned to her, eyes wide and gasped, “My mommy was a ninja?!?!”

As for me, I’m neither confirming or denying my past exploits. I figure I need every bit of leverage I can get.

Follow @cmsvoteup